Neon Orange Tree Trunks

Nia Feren

Neon Orange Tree Trunks

My focus oscillates between my coffee’s lazy steam swaying, and three tailored spheres of dust-coated leaves—either side of a rustic wooden gate— guarding the grand mansion deprived of human touch.

A forced garden on a painted pavement stands, autumn’s touch goes unnoticed— All grey, grunting ghouls in and around six little sad trees. The yarn of caffeinated vapor endlessly, pirouettes and prances veiling, then unveiling the trees.

Something bright! Something ablaze! Fiery orange spews out the trunk with a curved spine, they rest as though sculpted, outside the soulless mansion. I see only them—

The drenched laborers taking shade under the fishnet shadows in their neon orange vests, no more drilling infinitely into the pavement the merciless sun demands a quiet sight.

How loud their minds must be? If only my hearing range fits within their frequencies. I know not of how long, or how far they’ve come only to nest under these fishnet shadows.

I know not if the man with the missing tooth misses his children, or if he has a family at all?

I know not of the man with eyes shut, dreams in color or black or stoic white.

I know not of the story behind the scar disappearing into his vest’s hem.

I know not if they live grieving the death of a life they inched towards, but never lived . . .

I walk towards them, my hands cold from carrying chilled mango-juice bottles; I place them in each jagged palm.

Them and I, may have different stories with snowflake shaped scars, tongues rolling into languages that don’t mix and races that are miles apart. Yet, I felt the warmth, the love, the gratitude, that sprouted out of their crinkled eyes, with gap toothed smiles louder than the drilling of all heads combined,

“Thank you, beti,”* smiles the one with the missing tooth.

*Daughter